Clinamen

A sphere emerges from perfection in a sphere
Through which reflection shines the clear
And fluid motion of the stream
Of living beings — and it is queer

That life embodies its own body and demands
To meet itself where alien strands
Are caught up in the desperate tug
Of sea and sand.

Imagine life's a knot, a tangle twin-
Ing round the place it's caught, where bits of
Flesh drip wry and rot, in short a
Clot — and here I

Lie while in me all this mass meets its
Morass and stops

And stirs, and while I'm lost
In thoughts of what I am and not this
Raveling unravels and I
Swerve.